Liminality
by rabid behemoth
Summary: The flowers dusting the field they meet in are rumored to only grow near graves, but sometimes the plainest truth is exactly as you see it, regardless of legends. The short story of Sakura on a not-date with a traveler who walks the boundary between worlds. [ItaSaku oneshot. Lemon.]


**A/N:** I'm taking a break from Spaces Between Stars for some perspective, and wanted to write a oneshot in the meantime. This is dedicated to Key, who made me realize I'd never written an ItaSaku oneshot with a lemon—which, in turn, made me wonder if it was even possible to do so plausibly without relying on an AU setting (I hope it worked? Took 11k words to get there, so it better have!). This is also dedicated to writeshivaniwrite, whose astounding review of my old fic, Contagious, motivated me to finish it. Thanks so much for the love, guys. ;_;

Please note this *is* a hard M, despite some ponderous themes and vague surrealism (weird combination? Possibly. But I like it). Enjoy, and please don't forget to let me know what you think! Writing decent smut featuring enemies is absurdly difficult.

\- o -

 **Liminality**

\- o -

The cemetery is strikingly beautiful. Sakura is used to picturing them tucked away on sloping mountainsides, half-hidden in the leafy privacy of trees or bamboo thickets. The word elicits images of neat rows of tombstones packed together tightly, nearly atop one another, due to the ubiquitous preference for cremation over burials. But this cemetery is marvelously flat and open to the sky, remote enough for the stone monuments to have breathing space between them. Though the tiny town it serves is only a two hour jog west of Konoha, it feels strangely like the edge of the world.

In the fields surrounding the cemetery, soft grass is dusted with tiny white flowers like an improbable midsummer frost. Sakura stands in the thick of them with a basket, Shizune at her side. The dirt path they arrived on stretches east, curving back toward the buildings a short distance away, the outermost band of Konohan forest only just visible on the horizon. They are near enough to town that a handful of roadside stalls dot the pathway close by, selling herbs, fruits, and flowers to travelers and mourners alike.

Quiet chanting carries easily through the warm afternoon air despite some distance, and Sakura turns to see a cluster of white-clothed people surrounding a gravesite: a memorial service. Today is the anniversary of someone's death. The trace of incense in the air makes her nostalgic, but she's not immediately sure why. Almost all of her loved ones are safe and sound back home save for Asuma, whom she was never particularly close to, and one important teammate still lost to the world. She knows he is alive out there, but remembering him hurts almost as if he is not. The person she knew is gone permanently, in some way, like the person the mourners are grieving for now.

Shizune's voice brings her back to earth: "Tsunade-sama wants at least one basket's worth of hakahana, but we can easily fill two. Look at this place."

Sakura agrees, wishing they'd brought more than two baskets. Perhaps it is a bad omen that flowers that only grow near cemeteries are blooming more prolifically than she's ever seen before. She doesn't know their official name as they seem to blossom nowhere outside of western Fire Country, but the locals here call them hakahana, or 'grave flowers', because of rumors that they require soil touched by spirits of the departed—or perhaps the tears of those left behind. Yet Sakura can't convince herself that such a beautiful sight could be bad. Sometimes the plainest truth is exactly as you see it, regardless of legends, and these flowers make an exceptional remedy for respiratory problems. They look lovely, and they bring relief.

Sakura and Shizune keep a respectful distance from the memorial service as they gather flowers, so they can talk in low voices. They discuss hospital business, exchange news of any recent bijuu captures, and gossip about the upcoming harvest festival. Neither is normally much for gossip, but they enjoy the peace so much that they soon lose track of time.

"Uh oh," Shizune says, squinting up at the position of the sun indicating late afternoon. "I have to be back before evening to help Tsunade-sama prep for the Council meeting tonight. We'll need to really hustle on our way back."

"Ah," Sakura intones, unable to hide her disappointment. "That's fine. I'll catch the night market next time we're here."

Shizune frowns. "I forgot you wanted to see that. We've got enough hakahana to last a good three months. Summer will be over by the time we come back. It'd be a shame to miss out—the food and music are remarkably good for the boondocks."

"It's no big deal. There's always next year."

Shizune bites her lip in thought. "You've never been before, right? Why not stick around? I can get back to Konoha faster on my own anyway."

Sakura smiles coyly. "Do my ears deceive me? Is this really Shizune-senpai I'm hearing, suggesting we break protocol on purpose?"

Shizune's cheeks color, but she can't hide her guilty smile. She seals her flower basket into a scroll for easier travel, and tucks it into her vest. "Tsunade-sama trusts you to take care of yourself, and that's good enough for me. You haven't been an apprentice for some time, and you know this area well. Konoha's a stone's throw away. I won't tell if you don't...and if you bring me back some hemlock from the market."

Sakura's eyes are round. "They sell hemlock?"

Shizune nods happily. "Yup, all kinds of poisons and medicines. I swear, this whole area is a giant pharmacy...anyway, take your time and enjoy. It'll be our secret."

Grinning, Sakura waves at Shizune's form, already shrinking in the distance. It's nice to have earned a little respect for her abilities after working so hard for so long. Meandering down the road toward town, she wonders what other oddities might turn up at the market later.

A cough floats through the air, coming from the line of a roadside stall just ahead—pharmacies do indeed attract patients. Sakura cranes her neck to peer at what looks like whole barrels brimming with purple lobelia. Her basket is heavy in her hand, but there is room for more. She glances longingly at the peach stand further down—their flesh is right in that sweet spot between pink and golden, firm but still yielding—but lobelia is hard to find, and would enhance the healing properties of the grave flowers. She gets in line.

Sakura is wrapped up in her excitement for the night market. She automatically steps forward when the line moves, lost in her thoughts, until there's only one patron left before her. She peers around his elbow, trying to decide which bundle to ask for: the long-stemmed ones may last a little longer, but it's the flowers that have the most potent concentration of medicine. It is a small wonder, then, that she is taken by complete surprise when the man turns around, revealing the face of Uchiha Itachi.

Several observations hit Sakura at once: he is not in his Akatsuki cloak, but unassuming street clothes. She's never seen him this close before—the last time was from a distance, just before she defeated Sasori—and she is surprised by how slight he is, not quite as tall as she remembers. Her medic's eyes instantly pick up on his pallor, the bags under his dark, Sharingan-less eyes hinting at illness or hardship. His chakra signature is so weak she naturally mistook him for a civilian. The changes are unexpected enough that it takes her a millisecond longer than it should have to process them before she can act.

She releases her grip on the basket unconsciously, knee already raised before it can hit the floor. She is well within striking range but her first instinct is to gain some distance. Her intent is not to protect herself, but to ensure her death is not wasted. Sakura has always been prepared to die for her village, nobly, for the sake of her loved ones; but to die alone in this remote place without having protected or defeated anyone is perhaps the worst fate imaginable. She has brought down Akatsuki before and _must_ do so again, though the price will likely be her life.

There is no time to be afraid, only to react. She needs a moment—space—to figure out how to damage him effectively before he takes her out.

Before she can bring her heel down to split the earth open and knock him backward, his hand hooks round her knee, finger gently pressing into the popliteal artery running along the back of her leg, thumb against her kneecap. If he shatters either she'll be unable to run, with no time to heal herself. She freezes, preferring uncertainty to instant death.

His other hand catches the basket of grave flowers before they can spill onto the dirt.

He holds her poised in midair, delicate and still. Sakura sees visions of herself killed, or captured and tortured for information about the Kyuubi, but his Sharingan is not active.

His black eyes shock her, remorseful.

"I'm sorry to have met you like this, Haruno-san."

His murmur is too low for the merchant behind them to hear, but it nearly jolts her back to life. Only the deceptively soft squeeze of his palm cupping the back of her knee stills her, reminding her to wait for her opportunity. Pray there is an opportunity.

But his Sharingan is still not active, his chakra muted, which confuses her.

"I'll ask you to kindly refrain from violence out of respect for the dead. Let's go our separate ways."

Sakura is lost, until she remembers the ongoing memorial service in the cemetery. The scent of incense lingers, true, but this is a trap, or a diversion. Sweat trickles down her spine, and she shivers despite the heat. Is this really how she dies? Meaninglessly?

Oddly, her only thoughts are how guilty Shizune will feel for leaving her alone, and how traumatized the mourners will be, to witness a murder on their day of remembrance. Sakura is strangely disconnected from the present, drifting away.

And then his touch is gone, and he is behind her, walking toward town. It takes her a second to understand the meaning of the sudden weight of the flower basket in her palm again. She spins, thinking of hidden partners lying in wait to finish her, but she feels no hostile chakra. She cannot sense another shinobi within a dozen miles of here.

Though Sakura's brain is preoccupied with its brush with death, adrenaline quickens her thoughts. Her eyes open with the realization of several different things at once.

"You're letting me go?" she calls to his back. It is not a question, but a test, though she does not need to fake the disbelief in her voice.

He pauses only briefly to glance at her over his shoulder. "This encounter never happened."

Now Sakura is certain she is right. But he is walking away, and she hasn't yet gathered courage to carry through with the bizarre course of action she is abruptly struck by. She stalls with the truth.

"You're not supposed to be here."

He stops. It is all the confirmation she needs. She is not surprised when he says nothing, but resumes his pace without a backward glance.

"You're sick," she presses, still buying time to wrap her mind around the insane plan hatching in her head. "And you don't want them to know you're weak. So you came without your cloak, without a partner, and without permission. To get medicine to hide it. You can't kill or capture me without revealing yourself."

His spine is stiff. He has stopped again, head turned to consider her. "Wouldn't it be imperative for me to kill you if that's the case? Leaving you free to talk would be a risk. Do you really think I lack the skill to avoid implicating myself in your mysterious death?"

Sakura had not thought of this. Fear knots in her belly again, but it is accompanied by the adrenaline surge she's been waiting for. He _is_ sick. The white and purple tips of flowers peeking out of his pack are undeniable. If he would risk going against his colleagues, it must be serious. Maybe—maybe he's _bluffing._

This is her chance.

No one has ever captured an Akatsuki when merely expecting to survive the fight is insanity, but Sakura is treading on a knife's edge of madness. Her system spikes. She can picture it—she can do it—she can turn this chance encounter to her advantage and knock him out with one blow to the back of the head—his Sharingan isn't even on—perhaps he's too weak to use it—her muscles coil for the spring—

His chakra flares to life at the same time as his Sharingan, impossibly strong and twice as terrifying. Her knees are weak from the power of his aura alone, but she remains standing with effort. Her plan is dust. She is dust.

Red eyes focus on her with something almost like amusement. "I admire your daring, Haruno-san. But regardless of my condition, we both know how this will end. Be on your way and I'll be on mine."

He is leaving again. Sakura is truly, utterly bewildered. The basket slips from her listless hand, white flowers spilling over the soil, but she is not aware.

"Why?" she asks, compelled to reclaim the order of the universe. She must know, or all reason crumbles. "What possible reason would you have to let me go?"

He emits a low sound of frustration before turning toward her. She is taken aback—no one has ever seen him frustrated before. He glares now, asking, "Can't you just leave it alone?"

She shakes her head without meaning to, unsure if this is really happening.

He closes his eyes and releases a breath. When he opens them, they are black and soft again. Unexpectedly familiar. "Fine. Shall we make a deal? I will answer three of your questions—though I reserve the right to reject any of them—if you answer three of mine."

Sakura objects to the lopsidedness of the proposal before she realizes she's actually discussing it. "No way. If you can reject questions, so can I."

He nods. "That's fair. Follow me."

Then he walking toward town again, his back to her.

"This—this is a trap—" she declares, but her feet are already moving to catch up.

He snorts. Sakura's eyes widen at such a sound coming from him.

"There is hardly a need for Akatsuki to stage an elaborate ambush to capture a single chuunin. This is not to insult your abilities, which I understand are considerable. However, our organization's style is rather more…straightforward."

Sakura considers the logical truth to that—what need is there to resort to trickery if almost no one is a threat?—but she is distracted by the fact that he has praised her. Her head spins.

"Considerable? Do you—do you mean because I killed Sasori?"

Itachi keeps his eyes forward. "That was impressive, but it's not the only reason."

Her brow furrows. She falls into step an awkward distance beside him—too far for them to seem like they're together, but too close for them to seem like strangers wandering in the same direction. "You don't seem very sorry about it," she points out, almost accusingly. Though he was an enemy, Sakura felt something like respect for Sasori in the end.

Itachi offers only a noncommittal 'hnn'. Sakura files this reaction away with the secret he's keeping from Akatsuki and his other inexplicable behavior, but she cannot make sense of anything. Craziest of all is her compulsion to explain a madman, but Sakura has never been good at accepting the limits of her understanding.

Suddenly they stand before a small restaurant. Itachi lifts the red curtain in the doorway aside, but Sakura is frozen. She doesn't realize he is holding it open for her until he has given up and entered first. She summons chakra to her fist as she follows, just in case.

The izakaya is nearly empty—it's too early in the evening for a business that peaks in the wee hours of the morning. The lighting is subdued, comfortable, and the walls are paneled in warm wood. A sleepy waiter leans against the doorway of the kitchen. The empty space feels like entering a private bubble of reality, and Sakura does not know what to think about it. Itachi sits at a table near the back.

Sakura floats through the restaurant and seats herself across from him. This is the second time she's ever faced him directly like this, like should would a real person, and she sees she was right about the changes in his appearance. The shine in his dark hair has dulled a bit, and there's a tiredness about him, though he's much closer to her own age than she'd previously thought. Without the cloak and the Sharingan, he is deceptively unintimidating, but she knows better.

The suddenly-animated waiter has already taken Itachi's order and left otoushi on the table. Sakura's improptu dining partner lifts a piece of stir-fried-something with his chopsticks. She gazes at him chewing and thinks, _This is the man who slaughtered his own clan, tortured Sasuke, and wants Naruto dead._ But a stray bit of sauce clings to the corner of his mouth. Sakura stares at it, knowing that if she survives this encounter, she will never look at him the same way again.

He catches her gaze and raises an eyebrow.

"Er—you have a little—" She touches the corresponding spot on her own face.

Itachi nonchalantly wipes it with a napkin. The waiter returns, setting a steaming drink in front of him. Sakura smells raw egg in the sake, and again remembers he is ill. Tamagozake is hardly the most medically valid remedy she can think of, and she knows this is not a simple cold. She wonders if he just likes the taste or something.

"Are you old enough to drink?" he asks abruptly.

Sakura colors. "I'm of age." Only recently...but like hell is she drinking with an S-class criminal. She orders water and grilled hokke fish, though she doubts she'll be able to swallow any of it under the circumstances. She dares not take her eyes off him for fear of what may happen.

But his gaze is far away. "So is my brother, then."

His expression makes her confused and uncomfortable. "U-Uchiha-san," she stumbles, unsure of how to address him.

"Itachi is fine," he offers. She is silently appalled at the implied familiarity.

"Itachi-san." She settles for something between the two. "Why are we here? What's going on?"

He looks at her strangely. "We agreed to a conversation. I thought this would be more comfortable than standing in the street."

It's such a natural answer. Sakura feels like everything she's ever known—all her expectations of the world—are crumbling to nothing. She knows nothing. She is in a trance.

She flows with it. "Okay," she says, letting the chakra in her fist dissipate, suppressing laughter that would surely border on hysteria. "I guess let's talk, then?"

The food arrives, and he pauses to try it before responding. "Would you like to go first?"

She hesitates only a moment before blurting her question. "What disease do you have? It's respiratory, right? Is it terminal, or just serious?"

The resignation on his face suggests he was expecting this. "Are you asking out of professional curiosity, or to gather intel for Konoha?"

"Both," she admits, because Itachi is not stupid.

"You know I would never answer that," he returns evenly.

Naturally, but… "Then why did you want to clarify my motive?"

"Professional curiosity," he repeats with a straight face.

She is not sure what to make of that, so she tries again. "Okay. What are Akatsuki's plans for the bijuu?"

He is unimpressed.

"Hey, I had to try!" she says, defensive. "What kind of shinobi do you think I am?"

"A promising one, though overlooked. Both insecure and overly bold, perhaps impulsive, but likely clever enough to escape most trouble you make for yourself. Loyal, too."

Sakura's jaw is slack. It takes a long moment before she can collect herself. "Th-that doesn't count as one of my three questions."

Itachi's expression is perfectly neutral. "It certainly does. You are fortunate I answered at all, considering it was technically your tenth."

Sakura is aghast. She is briefly offended that he would use such an underhanded tactic, before she remembers she's talking to an internationally-wanted criminal. An unsettlingly _polite_ criminal, but a criminal nonetheless. She glares. "Fine. Then we count your question about my age as one, too."

His brows lift but he says nothing, finishing his drink. Sakura knows better than to assume he has agreed, but there's really nothing she can do.

Then again, she could walk away and leave this game they're playing altogether. She now believes he would let her go; they're here at her insistence, after all. She senses some danger here, in sitting unassumingly beside a hated enemy. It is not a physical danger, but she senses it all the same.

Suddenly, Sakura requests sake from the waiter. It's a reckless idea, but fifteen minutes ago she was convinced she was going to die, and she feels edgy and restless. No day will ever be more surreal than this one, and her strongest desire right now is to get some distance from herself. It may be grossly irresponsible to take even a small risk, but at least she is a medic-nin in control of her own metabolism.

"As I said: overly bold," he remarks, pouring for her and watching her drink. "Surely you're still inexperienced."

Sakura smiles secretly into her cup. He probably has no idea of her ability to moderate the alcohol's effect (so long as she isn't too drunk to pay attention). "You sound concerned," she says, to distract him.

He ignores the bait, as expected. "You still have one more question."

Sakura thinks. There is really only one question left that truly matters, but never in a million years will he answer. She is not even sure she wants to know. But she will regret it for the rest of her life if she doesn't seize this chance.

"Why did you do it?" Her voice is small. The mood shifts.

Itachi stares into his sake. He tilts the cup in idle circles, watching liquid swirl around the rim, but none spills. She cannot read the meaning of his lowered eyes. She absently notes his lashes are quite long.

"Let's discuss something else."

Sakura sighs, unable to hide her disappointment that all the most maddening mysteries of the universe are apparently not to be solved tonight. She will have to think of another question later. "Fine. Your turn, then."

Itachi drains his cup. Sakura politely pours another for him. She braces herself to reject inquiries about the kyuubi: Naruto's triggers, his weaknesses, upcoming travel plans...

"What kind of teammate was my brother?"

Sakura overfills his cup and hurries to correct. She wipes down the table to buy herself a moment to recover. She's so thrown, she just spits out the truth. "Sasuke-kun was an exceptional teammate, talent-wise. He acted like he was better than us, like he didn't need us, but...I always thought it was because he was afraid to be close to anyone. If he loved anyone though, it was us. We fought for each other. He almost died for Naruto on our first real mission. But he pretended it meant nothing afterward."

Sakura takes a long drink, relaxing her metabolism to normal for now. She wants to feel the buzz, at least for a little bit, and she can speed it up later to make up for the lapse. She looks up to meet Itachi's eyes. She is not accusatory when she speaks, because she is stating plain facts. "He was like that because of you. He left because of you, too."

His face is unnaturally still, like porcelain. On some level she suspects he not a person at all, but a human-shaped doll like Sasori. She can almost see the puppet strings: taut gossamer threads spreading from his back like wings, glinting in the dim light. He shifts the topic away from himself with the most expert of maneuvers.

"Were you in love?"

Sakura nearly coughs out her drink and has to swallow in a hurry. "You mean he and I, together? Or just me?" Too late, she realizes she's said too much—given herself away. She flushes scarlet to her ears, taking another sip to hide her shame. It is abruptly ten degrees warmer.

Itachi changes the subject. Sakura wonders which of the two possible motives is more out of character for him: kindness or pity.

"Should we order another round?" he asks. She nods quickly.

Itachi pours for her again, and thanks her when she returns the favor. Music is playing from somewhere—a single flute accompanied by a drum—and his expression grows distant again.

"Haruno-san," he begins.

Sakura looks at him dourly. "I thought we already established that this situation is a bit beyond ordinary social conventions."

"Sakura-san," he corrects, not missing a beat. Her name sounds foreign on his tongue, but not in a bad way. "Can you ever forgive Sasuke for all he's done?"

Her brows knit, a frown marring her mouth. She can't fathom why he asks, and is suspicious of his motive, but she knows the answer. She has always known the answer. "Of course."

Itachi looks at her carefully. "Even if he commits worse crimes? Surely there are some sins you can never forgive."

Sakura is annoyed. What crimes could be worse than defection? Than training under someone like Orochimaru? He attacked her, broke her heart, yet… "I forgive him because no matter what he does or who he becomes, he's still a Konohan. He's still a teammate. Nothing can ever change that."

Itachi's face is curiously blank again, though he is expressive at other times. Sakura's eyes narrow as she wonders why he goes especially flat when speaking of Sasuke. He is hiding something. He is always hiding something.

"Do you think the rest of the village feels the same? Would they ever welcome him back?" he presses.

Sakura has to consider this. "Probably not everyone, but enough. The rookie nine will forgive him. Kakashi-sensei, too. And Naruto is more influential than you'd think...but what others say doesn't matter that much. We _will_ get him home in the end. I know it."

Sakura watches him closely, so she doesn't miss the flicker of something undefinable across his features, though it vanishes instantly. He tries to redirect the conversation back to her. "As I said: loyal."

Sakura is not having it. "What are you planning?" she whispers fiercely. "Leave Sasuke-kun alone. He's been through enough because of you."

Itachi averts his eyes. "I bear no ill will toward my brother."

Sakura laughs aloud at his audacity. "All you've ever done his entire life is try to hurt him. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're stupid at all, Sakura-san. But there are things you cannot understand."

" _Obviously_ ," she bites back, acerbic. "Like your intentions. You have your own plans for Sasuke-kun. You have your own plans, separate from Akatsuki— _don't_ deny it," she warns before he can interrupt. But his mouth never even moves, so she continues. "You're keeping important secrets from them, and you've never once asked me anything useful to them, even though you've got me in a vulnerable state in which my judgement is impaired." She swallows another drink defiantly, as if to prove her claim. "At this point I'm beginning to doubt you have any real loyalty to Akatsuki's cause at all. And anybody with that many secrets can only be up to no good—even by the standards of usual evil."

Sakura half expects him to just get up and leave—why should he willingly sit here and allow an enemy chuunin to berate him? To some extent, it would be a relief to end this bizarre evening and never think about it again. But he doesn't move. He looks thoughtful, as if seriously considering her words.

"Perhaps you're correct," he acknowledges after a long moment, reaching across the table to snatch a bite of her hokke fish. The bold move takes her by surprise before she can object. He chews it contemplatively, washing it down with a sip of sake. "I often doubt whether I have ever done the right thing. I fear I'll die with regrets."

Itachi has said many odd things for a criminal tonight, but this is by far the most ridiculous. She laughs at him, brazenly stealing a piece of his stir fry in return. He seems bemused by her response, which irritates her.

"The funniest thing about you, Itachi-san, is that I can't tell whether you take your own bullshit seriously or not—forget being honest with me."

"Oh," he says lightly, "I'm never honest."

Sakura pauses with her chopsticks midway to her mouth, wheels in her brain turning. She drops her pilfered food. "Wait—that—that's a paradox. 'I'm never honest'. If that were true and you're a liar, you couldn't say so, because you'd be being honest. But a truthful person could never call themselves a liar and still be truthful. It can't be either true or false!"

He raises his hand for another round, eye catching hers from the side of his vision. "As I said: clever." The corner of his lips curve upward in something like a smile.

Sakura is blown away by the ambiguity of his expression (can't be a smile) and his words, and desperately wonders what he means by them. Is he trying to tell her something? How could a person be neither honest nor dishonest? Why make logically impossible statements? What is he trying to get her to think? He must be playing games with her. Sakura flushes with the realization that she has been enjoying them. Suddenly, she stands, clapping her hands together. "Kai!"

The waiter and Itachi give her identical 'have you lost your mind?' stares. The waiter drops off the new carafe of sake and moves on to the next table in a hurry.

Sakura sinks back into her seat, feeling foolish, but she's not ready to let the idea go. "You—you're fucking with me! This is a genjutsu," she accuses.

Itachi struggles to keep his face straight. He reaches across the table toward her. Sakura squeezes her eyes shut, but does not flinch away.

He pokes her in the forehead.

Her eyes open in shock. The curve of his mouth is back again—she had not imagined it. "Do you feel guilty for enjoying yourself?" he asks, refilling her cup.

"Now you're teasing me," she says, aghast, trying to grasp her own words and failing.

"Am I?" he asks more than answers, waiting for Sakura to pour for him. She does.

Sakura sighs and leans an elbow on the table, gazing absently over his shoulder. "No one can ever know about this." She's unsure if she's muttering the warning for him or herself. So much for gathering intel for a good cause. The further the evening progresses, the clearer it becomes that she is in this for herself.

"I wasn't planning to speak of it," he agrees, helping himself to another bite of her dish. "This is quite good," he adds.

"It is. Better than yours, I think."

He hums in agreement, taking another drink.

"Should you be drinking this much if you're ill?" she questions—a medic's reflex.

"Probably not," he admits. "But this has been an unusual evening altogether."

"Do you feel guilty for enjoying yourself?" she mocks.

He smiles demurely. "No."

She reddens at the admission, but she believes him. Something has changed between them, and Sakura finds herself speaking candidly. "Well, don't expect me to heal you if you wind up injuring yourself," she sniffs. "You're absolutely still an enemy, even if you're taking the night off or whatever. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow." The sensible part of her mind recognizes that can't be quite true, but she drowns it out with sake.

"I would never ask you to compromise your loyalty that way. Tonight's circumstances are exceptional, but there are always limits. For both of us."

"Good," Sakura says, relaxing with her elbow on the table again, chin in her hand. "I'm officially giving up on trying to figure out your intentions tonight."

"I'm relieved," he says, and once again she can't tell if he's serious, or just making fun of her. But she cares less than she did before, somehow, preferring to focus on finishing her plate. She is full—the food and sake have actually been rather good.

An elbow from nowhere nearly beans her in the face, but Sakura is still a shinobi, tipsy or not. She ducks. The drunken patron shimmying down the aisle laughs, oblivious to having almost given her a black eye. It occurs to Sakura that the once-empty izakaya is full to bursting with customers. The sun has long disappeared from the window behind Itachi. She blinks at him, disoriented. They'd been talking much longer than she thought.

Itachi tilts his head at her, inquisitive. "Problem?"

She stands, eyes wide. "Oh! The night market. I promised Shizune-senpai some hemlock—"

Itachi nods, finishing his drink and leaving a generous handful of ryou on the table. He follows after her without invitation, weaving through the tightly packed crowd.

Sakura is processing several things: they had dinner and drinks together; they talked; they lost track of time; apparently he's accompanying her on her errand too—there is a word for this—her brain falters—

Then they are surrounded. It is almost as crowded outside as it was inside. The moon is already high, and the warm night is made warmer still by all the people. Music is playing—she connects it with the flute from earlier—and the air smells like frying dough. Above them stars blanket the sky, brighter in this remote place than they'd be in Konoha.

Sakura turns to make sure Itachi is still behind her. She gets an eyeful of his collarbone—the crowd has jostled him too close—she steps back hurriedly.

Having re-established appropriate space between them, they set off together down the road. Sakura leads the way though he is in step beside her. But she doesn't know where she's going.

"Have you ever been to the night market before?" she asks over the sounds of bartering and laughter.

"No. I try to be discreet when coming here, so my visits tend to be brief."

Sakura makes a face. "Should you be confirming my theories about your secret illness like that?"

"I thought you'd given up trying to discern my intentions. Was I foolish to believe you?"

She rolls her eyes, now knowing he is teasing. Itachi may like her company—could someone like him really like her company?—but he is too smart to trust her with truly sensitive information. In fact, his confirmation only makes her doubt her own idea. Unless that is his plan, to make her doubt herself. Sakura's brain threatens to get caught in a loop of unsolvable skepticism, but she shakes herself out of it. Not tonight. The threads can be untangled tomorrow when she's regained sense.

Right now she needs hemlock, or she'll owe Shizune explanations.

The rows of stalls lining the road blur together, there are so many of them. Some are covered by colorful tarps strung between beams stuck in the ground, others are set up directly in the beds of wagons. They pass merchants selling textiles, exotic instruments, and sweets, but most are offering vegetation. Shizune had not exaggerated about the pharmacological properties of the region; they were probably the village's primary export, and surely responsible for creating a bustling market in the middle of nowhere.

Sakura spies the pine-like leaves of hemlock branches peeking out from a bucket in a nearby stall. Itachi browses the surrounding shops while she gets in line. She watches him peer into barrels with obvious curiosity, and thinks that he is just like hemlock. Even the deadliest of poisons becomes medicine with the right dose administered under the proper circumstances. Most everything exists in a such a liminal space, the truth somewhere between two disparate categories. It's a folly of human minds to want to label everything in existence as only one thing or its opposite: medicine or poison, good or bad, true or false. Such neatness is desirable because it doesn't really exist in nature.

Ah. She is drunker than she realized, to be thinking like this. Did she ever resume her metabolism control? She sways a bit, enjoying herself too much to bother now. She purchases her hemlock. It is generally safe to touch, but its oils might enter the body subcutaneously, so she seals it away in a scroll to be safe.

She turns, and there is Itachi, waiting. Too close, again.

"Oh. Hello," she says, looking up.

"Hello," he responds, voice tinged with humor. "Did you get what you need?"

"I did." There is a beat of awkward silence. She has what she came for, but she's not ready to leave. It occurs to her that once she does, poison will go back to being poison, everything in its appropriate box, and her new insight will be lost. The thought makes her oddly disappointed.

Perhaps Itachi senses her mood. "If we keep walking, there's a fire eater performing toward the outskirts."

Sakura's eyes are round with intrigue. She's never seen such a thing before. They walk for quite a while; the rows of stalls lining the street are long. Finally, she spies a glint of orange through the thinning crowd.

"How did you know this was here? I thought you'd never been before?" she asks.

"My Sharingan."

"Oh," she replies. Of course. A thought strikes her. "But you've had it off all night. Are you having an issue with it, that you need to rest it like that?"

Itachi shakes his head to himself, face rueful. "I'm thankful you were born in Konoha, Sakura-san."

Sakura has no idea what he means by that, but he is smiling, and there is no malice in his tone. If anything, it is faintly admiring. She shrugs it off, ears pink.

The final cluster of the crowd huddles in a tight circle off the edge of the road, presumably to keep the flames away from the crowds and tarps. Itachi and Sakura squeeze their way into a spot where they can see. She steps on his toes and hisses an apology—he forgives her—but their shoulders are pressed together and Sakura is not sure how to keep her left leg out of his way. Other bodies touch hers from all sides, but she is most conscious of the warmth coming from his. Through the scent of kerosene in the air, she thinks she catches a whiff of something familiar, yet confusingly disparate, like pine needles and grass. Strands of dark hair tickle her cheek, and she brushes them away from her face discreetly.

A flash of brightness lightens the air, a torch alight. Dancers churns to the music while the fire eater begins to swallow the torch, inch by inch. Sakura's medic brain is entranced, bubbling with fascinating possibilities of how an ordinary civilian could be doing this. Even a katon doesn't involve actual flames inside the body, just the ignition of chakra as it's expelled into the air. She brushes Itachi's dangling hand with her own by mistake, and they both pull away. She tucks hers awkwardly into her skirt pocket.

The show ends and the crowd begins to disperse. Sakura is glad for the breathing room. It is darker and quieter now, here on the outskirts of the market, and the flute is soft in the distance. They face each other in silence. Itachi is looking at her strangely, and she turns away.

"I should go home," she says finally. She could find an inn for the night if she wishes—Shizune would find that plausible enough—but given the size of the crowd, everyone will be thinking the same thing. And she doesn't look forward to the prospect of getting up hours before dawn tomorrow and racing home so as not to blow their secret. But for the second time that night, Sakura's feet don't want to move. It feels hollow somehow, to end this strange adventure like this.

"Don't you have to bring back hakahana?" Itachi asks. "You dropped them earlier."

"Oh crap!" Sakura slaps a palm to her forehead. How close she had been to overlooking something so critical! Imagine showing up empty handed in the morning, trying to feed Shizune a believable excuse on the spot—and Tsunade later— "Ugh, thank you for reminding me. That would have been a disaster. I can't believe I—"

"Would you like help?" Itachi asks, perhaps to derail the incoming self-abasement.

Sakura cannot help but smile.

They stroll together out into the field, where it is darker and quieter still, the flute gradually silenced. The only sound is the rustle of the warm breeze against the long grasses and stems.

The field is twice as lovely by night as it was by day. The moonlight casts a blueish tint on the tiny white flowers, which is offset by the glow of fireflies floating in and out of sight.

Sakura's basket is long gone, but they stoop to gather armfuls of hakahana until their limbs grow heavy. They pick in companionable silence, and Sakura feels relaxed in every bone in her body. She is sad when they are finished, but laughs at the huge heap. She seals the oversized bundle into a scroll and gazes up at the moon, wishing she could find a reason to stay a bit longer even more than she did this afternoon.

Itachi mirrors her stance, eyes turned upward toward the heavens. Sakura thinks of the cemetery beside them and abruptly grasps the weight of mortality—that inevitable truth that human beings spend every waking moment forgetting. Though the dead may silently linger just out of sight, she is overcome by how utterly alone they are, here at the edge of existence. A chill runs down her spine, apprehension in her belly, but it's not quite ordinary fear.

His eyes slide down to meet her gaze. She struggles for words.

"I—thank you." It is inadequate.

"You're welcome."

They stand there for another long moment, and Sakura notices the moonlight is toying with her perception, tinting his black hair blue.

Itachi breaks the silence this time. "You should go."

"I should," she agrees. But she doesn't move. For the third time, she is reluctant to leave when she should. A thought circles. "Shouldn't you have left long ago? You said you never stay long when you come here, what if they—"

His eyes soften. "Please don't worry about me, Sakura-san."

Her own eyes widen. He is right—she was worried. The honest thought has a domino effect, and she connects the dots between her earlier notions: the restaurant, the engaging conversation, the personal disclosures...

"Oh my god," she whispers, freezing in place. "Did we just—that wasn't a—date?"

She cannot take the word back once it trips out of her mouth. Itachi's eyes are now as big as hers.

"I wouldn't know," he admits.

She sputters, and clings to the distraction. "You've never been on a date before?"

"No. Have you?"

Sakura is glad for the darkness, hoping the moon is not bright enough for him to see her expression. "Um, once or twice…" To her credit, she generally blocks out the one time she gave into Lee's pleading, and whatever possessed her to give Kiba a chance. She was a bit younger then, and stupid, and on the rebound.

She claps a hand over her mouth in horror. If this was indeed a date...it was her best one by far.

She stares across the shifting grass at Itachi's pale face—that of a murderer, a criminal, a face she's hated for half her life. But that hatred was so impersonal, so distant, and his physical presence is far more real. His face is close enough that she could reach out a hand and touch it, if she took one step forward.

It is an enticing face. Beautiful as poison.

The gap between them shrinks—Sakura doesn't know who is responsible, they are drawn together so subtly it could be gravity—and abruptly she can feel in the air what is about to happen. She has a choice before her.

There is electricity under her skin, and her throat is dry, but his dark eyes fill her vision as his face draws nearer still. She recognizes that scent—yes, it's winter in summer, as she thought—and she knows she will do it. She's never felt an urge like this before, and stopping now is unthinkable. She has to know.

Her own eyes slip closed, face upturned. Warm breath fans her cheek, and then—

She is kissing Uchiha Itachi.

His mouth is firm, but yielding—she is reminded of the ripe peaches she so envied earlier that day. Their lips are closed—his a bit cold, though soft—and Sakura's mind is beautifully blank.

They break apart for air, and she struggles to catch the threads of her earlier thoughts. There was, or should be, anxiety somewhere, a sense that she really mustn't do something—but she touches her tingling lips and can't remember—

"Forgive me," he breathes. His voice is lower, thicker than it was, which does funny things to the base of her spine. "I've never had the opportunity before. Thank you for the company tonight. It was more fun than I've had in a very long time."

A smile ghosts his lips—she's transfixed by their movement—and he bows deeply. He turns and begins walking.

Sakura's heart is ready to beat out of her chest. Is it over?—she's not ready—she wants—

"Wait," she calls. He stops and turns to look at her, but she has no idea what to say. What she wants. He waits patiently for a long minute, breeze ruffling his blue-black hair, but she is afraid of losing his attention and scrambles to come up with something—anything—

"I've never done that before, either," she tries, wincing at the admission. Embarrassing small talk. Nice.

But there is humor in his expression, and unmistakable interest in his eyes. His body language invites her to continue, but she still doesn't know what she means to ask for, exactly. She does know, however, that the space between them is too wide. The second she has the thought, invisible strings begin tugging at her ankles, pulling her to him.

His eyes darken a shade with every step she takes, and Sakura's stomach flip-flops at the sight. She stops when her toes are nearly touching his, and tentatively raises her hands. Her fingertips brush against the fabric of his shirt, enjoying the texture, before her palms press more assertively against his chest. She looks up and his eyes catch hers.

Their mouths meet again, and this time it is not chaste.

One of his hands cups the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. A bolder hand snakes around her lower back, lifting the edge of her shirt so he can touch the skin there. Their lips are parted, and the kiss is soft and wet.

She slides her hands down his chest, bringing them to rest at his sides. Her thumbs sneak beneath his clothes to stroke his hips. She opens her mouth a little wider, digging deeper, and Itachi is the first to make a low noise in the back of his throat. The sound makes her heart stutter in its rhythm.

He pulls back, breathing hard, and she is pleased by how dilated his pupils are. They reflect the moon. Her grip tightens on his hips.

"We're drunk," he points out, confessing his condition for the first time.

"I know," she replies, gut twisting. But her face is right beside his collarbone—she kisses it lightly through the cloth.

"We can't," he murmurs agreement even as his fingers climb her spine.

Sakura is trailing butterfly kisses up his neck—tasting the salt on his skin—but she pauses when she processes his words. "You're right. We should stop."

"We should," he nods, but then his nose is buried in her hair. He breathes deeply, and takes her earlobe into his mouth.

"Do you mean that?" she gasps, trying to get her spiking pulse under control. "You said you were never honest."

"You rejected that claim as incoherent," he reminds her, teeth closing gently around her lobe. "Do you want me to be honest now?"

"I don't know," she returns, unable to think beyond the warm mouth encasing her ear. "Depends on whether your answer is the same as mine."

His face retreats from her neck, and she is shocked by how cold the air has become in his absence. He pulls back far enough that he can study her eyes carefully—read every thought that might flit guardedly across her face.

"Sakura-san, no one has asked a question yet." He draws the words out slowly, watching her reaction.

She knows the proposal is in her eyes, in her flushed skin, but if he's stubborn enough to request clarification she's certainly not too cowardly to supply it. She has followed this traveler from another world down a rabbit hole already; she means to finish the journey. Sakura has always been willing to risk regret in exchange for knowledge. The willing soul before her promises a special kind of knowledge she knows nothing of.

"Itachi-san," she begins, fumbling for his wrists. She grips his hands and eases him down on the spot, into the soft grass among the grave flowers. He obeys freely, sitting. She carefully lowers herself into his lap, straddling his hips.

"Please," she says, kissing him on the mouth. She pulls back and cups his face in her hands, looks at him to let him know she means it. Beneath her palms, he appears different, recognizable—no longer a stranger's face, but a face she has known from some other time, past or future. Their shared history is written in the curve of his nose and the slope of his cheek. The deja vu is not alarming, but oddly comforting. His lip under her skimming thumb is as familiar as her own.

"I think...I...no," she stops, laughing at herself, and tries again.

"I want you," she says simply. "May I?"

He surges forward, and their mouths crash like waves.

The world is upside-down, star-studded blackness covering them like a blanket, Itachi's body atop hers. He is slighter than many shinobi, but there is a density to his form that she would never have noticed without his weight pressing down on her. Her head is pillowed in the grass, shirt hiked up to accommodate the hands wandering up and down her sides. Her legs are still wrapped around his hips, and she settles herself more fully against him.

Only when he breaks away to trail fire down her throat can she suck in air. She takes great gasping inhalations, trying to clear her head, to slow down. Over his shoulder, the moon peers down at them like a voyeur, but Sakura is not ashamed. She has possibly never wanted anything more in her life. This is an entirely new kind of desire, and Sakura is both unprepared and unwilling to defend herself against it.

"Itachi," she breathes, the honorific slipping her mind. She again doesn't know what to ask for exactly, but she recognizes a need for something more. She thrusts her hips against his to show him, and feels an uncomfortable pressure against her belly. At first she thinks it is stiff fabric bunching in his pants—annoying, he should remove them—until her wriggling reveals otherwise. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to understand for someone who has studied human anatomy for as many years as she, but she gets there eventually.

"Oh!" she laughs, tipping her head back and giving him better throat access. His hair tickles her shoulders. She's never made a man's body do that before...at least not on purpose. It's a delightful, empowering feeling, and blood rushes to her head.

Itachi seems to understand the meaning of her laughter, but has ideas of his own. He stops, sitting up and assessing her. She gazes back impatiently, but he takes his time to enjoy the view of her squirming beneath him. When she opens her mouth to provoke him, he presses a finger to her lips and unzips her top.

White chest bindings glow brightly against the darkness. Itachi frowns with disappointment.

"Well, what were you expecting?" she laughs.

"I don't know." He traces the bindings with his finger.

She suppresses a shiver when he slips a fingernail between the layers, grazing the skin beneath.

With effort, she strings her thoughts together to explain. "Kunoichi need support if we're gonna run around all day, let alone fight." Honestly, she can't believe an adult wouldn't know that, no matter _how_ preoccupied—

Her distracted thoughts crash around her ears when he slides that fingernail over a nipple. She whimpers in surprise, stiffening. He smirks down at her, kissing her on the mouth and flicking his finger again.

Sakura groans into the kiss, and before she knows what's happened her breasts bounce free, skin exposed to the air.

He sits up again to admire her. Sakura stifles the urge to shrink and cover her chest—she _does_ want him to see; she likes hunger on his face—but it's an ingrained reflex, and she's not used to being topless in front of an aroused man. He notices before she can squirm away, and pins her wrists to the ground so he can take his time perusing her.

Her nipples harden under his gaze, and he blows on them softly—first one, then the other. Sakura whines, shutting her eyes. His grip on her wrists vanish, then he is cupping her breasts, kneading them with warm palms. Sakura is going to dissolve into the soil and become part of the field of grave flowers.

He twists her flesh—it almost hurts, but the pleasurable sensations are too overwhelming to allow pain to seep through—before replacing a hand with his mouth. He works his jaw, sucking gently, tongue flicking her nipple periodically. The pressure between her legs intensifies, and she quickly loses her tolerance for passivity.

Itachi is not expecting it when she tightens her legs around him and uses chakra to roll them over. His head hits the damp earth, wide eyes looking up at her. His hair is splayed out around his face, mixing attractively with the soft grass, and Sakura can't help but stroke it. It's so fine, like a girl's. She leans forward to press her face into his neck, inhaling. Snow and sunshine.

"Do you have a hair thing?" he asks, something like a chuckle rumbling from his throat.

"I think I do now," Sakura responds, taking a final whiff before sitting up. She grinds down against him, carefully watching the twists in his expression. Strange how indistinguishable pleasure looks from pain...she grinds again, to see.

He turns his head to the side, face pinched, emitting a moan. Such a pitiable sound. Sakura wets her lips. She scoots his shirt up, encouraging him to lift himself so she can yank it off, until he is as bare-skinned and moonlight-pale as she. Sakura vows to deliver twice the torment he subjected her to. Her head bows, mouth searching for a nipple. She sucks, appreciating the shock of her bare skin rubbing against his while she works.

"Enough," he grunts, releasing his grip on her hips. Sakura watches in awe as he frees himself from his pants. She touches him with her fingertips, surprised at the contrast between the soft surface of his skin and the hardness beneath it. She grips him gently, unsure how much force to use, and increases the pressure of her palm until she likes the noises he's making very much.

His eyes are closed, head back and lips parted. The obscenity of this unguarded image is almost too intense to bear...Sakura pumps his length experimentally.

"Stop," he says after far too short a time for her liking, eyes opening. He tries to prop himself up, but she pushes him back gently. She releases him as requested, however.

"Sakura—" he starts, running his hand along the inside of her clothed thigh. His thumb flicks against her crotch, and she jumps. "Let me. Please."

Together they reach beneath her skirt to peel off her shorts and underwear, and Sakura is stunned by how wet she is. She can smell her own arousal, and is briefly worried, but his face shifts in a such a way that her stomach bottoms out. When a finger brushes along her slit, heat sparks in her veins, warmth spreading down her thighs. She allows him to scoot her body up along his own, unsure what he's planning, until he positions the apex of her thighs over his face.

Sakura is alarmed. Who knows what this experience will be like for him—what if he doesn't like it? Can someone even breathe down there?—and she _knows_ that if he's never kissed anyone on the mouth before, he's never kissed a girl there. She is about to ask him to stop when his warm tongue against her banishes all thought from her head.

Sakura's eyes lose focus. She presses her palms to the dirt and supports herself with her arms, afraid her legs will give out. Whimpers float through the air, but Sakura is not aware that she is responsible.

Itachi, however, is acutely aware. He tries to guess what she likes by the sound of her music and the changing pressure of her thighs against his head. He finds one effective pattern and sticks to that, altering it with just enough regularity until Sakura is near tears. Her hand fisting his hair urges him to move faster. He slides one hand along her thigh and slips a finger into her entrance. He pumps in time with his tongue until her legs stiffen and she cries out, pressing against his face hard. She comes for much longer than he ever could; he laps at her lazily, finger still buried in her, until the muscle spasms fade.

Sakura floats back to earth over an indeterminate period of time. When gravity affects her normally again, she gathers the energy to peel herself off of him, head spinning. She takes in the redness on his face, the moisture on his mouth, with awe. She wants to collapse on his chest and sleep, but she is made aware of his finger still inside her when he wiggles it. Sakura is shocked by how good that feels again, so immediately.

Itachi wears a pained expression, and she notices he is leaking against his own belly. She carefully backs up and positions herself over him. She presses their bodies together for a time, rotating her hips experimentally, squeezing him between them.

His eyelids nearly flutter closed, but he pushes himself up on his elbows to speak to her. "Sakura, wait, are you—?"

She smiles and cuts him off, knowing exactly what he's asking. "Medic-nin."

He nods in relief, grabbing her hips, running his hands up and down her sides a little frantically. His fingers dig into her skin. "Sakura, please, I—"

She cuts him off again, reaching under herself to position him at a comfortable angle. She lowers herself onto him little by little, taking her time to adjust to the novel sensation of being stretched this way. She's so wet that he slides in easily, but she's never felt so _full_ before—she hesitates to move.

Itachi cannot remain still any longer. He thrusts up, and Sakura's eyes widen at just how deeply she can take him. He goes as slowly as he can at first, muscle taut with restraint. Sakura is entranced by the colorful expressions flitting across his face, and relaxes incrementally. She soon realizes that the more she relaxes, the better it feels, and begins to meet his thrusts with enthusiasm, the burning in her belly building once again.

He drives deeper, and Sakura leans forward to kiss along his chest and neck. His speed increases and she guesses he is close from the litany of creative sounds he is releasing into the night. She carefully licks the shell of his ear, blowing against the damp skin. He bucks into her with a final grunt, gripping her tightly as he comes.

They ride out the final few thrusts together before Sakura collapses atop him as she's been longing to. Her head lifts with the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, and his heartbeat audibly slows beneath her ear. She finds herself absently following its rhythm, counting it almost...she intends to close her eyes only for a moment…

-o-

Sakura awakens at dawn to the chanting of mourners. She opens her groggy lids to the realization that she is lying naked and alone in a field of flowers beside a cemetery. Her clothes are folded neatly beside her. She scrambles into them without standing, trying to use the tall grass to hide her nudity from distant gazes, while her brain tries to string memories from last night back together.

A series of increasingly improbable events hits her like successive punches to the gut, and if Sakura hadn't woken naked she would have sworn she ingested poison and dreamed the whole thing while in the grip of a fever.

She cycles through about a thousand different feelings as she yanks up her shorts, but has no idea which one to fall on. She settles for grim disappointment—or perhaps outright embarrassment. The problem is not so much that she allowed herself to get carried away with an S-class criminal that she despises on principle—though that's certainly not good—but more the fact that she misread his interest so badly in the first place. Of course he would abandon her to sleep naked under the stars alone. He has his own interests to be concerned with. But the niggling doubt is discomfiting—had the rest of their connection been in her head?

The sound of rustling grass makes her whirl, wincing in fear that some priest is about to rebuke her, on top of the verbal thrashing she expects from Shizune upon her inevitably late arrival.

But it is Itachi, fully dressed, if a little tousled. His hair is free from its ponytail—tangled strands spilling across his shoulders—and is that a petal caught in the long tresses? Regardless, he is _still here_ , and Sakura cannot account for why.

There is an interminable moment of awkwardness as they stare at each other, unsure what the other will do. He doesn't seem to believe that _she_ is real, either. At least not now that she's awake.

Finally, he clears his throat. "I brought water." He indicates the flask in his hand.

"Um, thanks," she says, accepting a drink. Virtually no one could ever be prepared for this kind of situation. She has no idea what to do or say.

He watches her intently while she swallows, making her cheeks heat up. She wipes her lips with her forearm and turns to talk to him, steeling herself—

He kisses the corner of her mouth quickly, before pulling away to observe her response. She lifts a hand to touch her mouth, and looks at him.

They smile shyly at each other, and everything and nothing has changed. The morning light reveals him to be the same enemy, but the meaning of the word itself has blurred, playing tricks on what Sakura thought she knew. She is not sorry for it. The twist in their relationship is too preposterous to be excusable even in a dream, but it happened, and the world is still here. The unchanged sun dawns young over the horizon at the end of the world.

"Thank you," she says again, hoping he won't ask what for, as she's not sure. But he seems to understand.

His gaze memorizes her form, and Sakura glows warmly beneath it. "You never asked your final question," he reminds her. It's odd; she remembers their words from last night as though they were said a lifetime ago.

Daring grips her, and Sakura seizes it. "Where do we go from here?"

He pauses to think. "Will you be ever be back to gather more grave flowers?"

Sakura flushes at the implication, hoping she's not reading too much into his words. His eyes suggest her inference is not at all off-base, however. She tries to stifle giddy laughter. "Yes, next summer. If Shizune-senpai doesn't ban me for life after this, that is."

His cheek lifts in sympathy. "If I'm still healthy enough to travel, perhaps I'll see you then."

Pain surges through her contentment—she can admit it, now—but Sakura remembers the truth of the world. Medicine cannot exist without poison, and everything comes to an end someday. She does not make offers or promises, and he does not make requests.

Itachi senses the duality of her mood, and reaches out a hand to wind a strand of her hair around his fingers. They stand together for a long time, watching the sun rise without speaking.

Time passes, and they can feel the earth resume its turning. He tugs her close and kisses her once more. A heavy sigh escapes her when they part, and she knows she's too relaxed and satiated to ever hurry properly on her way back to Konoha.

"I thoroughly enjoyed your company," he reiterates.

She smiles softly. "Likewise."

"Have a safe journey back, Sakura."

"You too, Itachi. I'm grateful to have truly met you."

He considers her, and Sakura sees herself reflected in his eyes. They recognize each other all over again.

"Goodbye," he says, and vanishes.

"Goodbye," she answers the swaying flowers he'd been standing in.

Before she leaves, she turns and bows deeply twice: first toward the field of grave flowers, then the cemetery. From one viewpoint, the exchange that occurred in this sacred place was blasphemous on many levels, but she hopes the dead might have greater perspective. She wants to believe that if anyone could celebrate two humans managing to see the plain truth of each other despite the separate boxes they've found themselves in, it's those who've passed beyond such limits. If there is a next time, she'll bring enough sake to pour over every headstone.

And, if she is blessed with the magnanimity of the universe, maybe just a little extra for two travelers who dare to walk the boundary between worlds.

-o-

fin


End file.
